Not Quite Jane Addams
by tito72
Summary: "Right, then," he says again, wiping his sweaty palms down his thighs. "I'm Thomas, Dr. Clarkson's graduate assistant. Er. Daisy said you needed a field placement?" Written for the Take Your Fandom to Work Meme


Thomas looks up from his computer screen at the knock at the door, but it's only Daisy.

"Yeah?" he asks, taking in the way she's wringing her hands worriedly.

"Sorry to bother you," she says, "Only, there's a student out here who needs help finding a field placement."

Thomas scowls. Can't they see he's busy? He's got over ten phone calls to make this morning to bloody incompetent people who haven't figured out that the signature portion of the field application is actually supposed to have a signature, and he hasn't got time to take walk-ins. Clarkson's out at a sight inspection for the day, though, and Sybil doesn't come in until noon, so it's Thomas or no one.

"Fine," he says, pulling up the next spreadsheet of students he's got to work his way through, "Send him back."

When Daisy doesn't move, Thomas looks up at her sharply. "What now?" he snaps. He feels a bit badly when she takes a step back, but they're not the same people they were as undergrads, are they, (And he can tell they're not, because Daisy's not cowering and mooning over him at the same time and Thomas does feel bad every time he makes her cry, if only a little), so she more or less stands her ground.

"You'll want to come out and collect him," she says.

"He can walk, can't he?" Thomas scoffs. "Just bloody send him back."

"Fine, then," Daisy says, and stalks off.

A moment later, Thomas can hear her directing someone to the tiny room that serves as the graduate assistant office (converted from a dressing room, he's told, when the university took over the castle in the thirties). He minimizes his open spreadsheet- information privacy and all that- and clears the multi-colored overfull file folders off the stained visitor's chair he's been using as an overflow for his desk. Of course, since he's got nowhere else to put them (they can't very well fit on the desk, not without toppling off and papers flying everywhere) he has to kneel down and wedge them in the desk's foot space- the only place they won't be in danger of being trod on. As he's working on this, he hears the knock on the door that means the student's snuck up on him. He rolls his eyes and hope they like the view of his arse he's presenting them.

"Come in," he says. "Just, have a seat, alright? I won't be half a mo."

"Please, take your time," a voice says in return- a man's voice, attractive and posh, and Thomas knows without even turning around that he's going to have a crush.

"Right, then," Thomas says, finally getting all the files to fit. He straightens and brushes away the dust that's managed to collect on his trousers. "What can I help you with?" He turns to face the man.

The first thing Thomas notices are the cheekbones (the angle of them, the precision). The second thing he notices is the scarring. The third thing is the white cane the man's got leaning casually against his knee.

Oh, Thomas thinks. Blind. It's not unheard of, certainly, blind social workers, but he wouldn't call it common, either, and they've certainly not got one in the program here. And this bloke, Thomas would certainly remember seeing him around.

The fourth thing Thomas notices is the man's body- the long legs under dark denim and the understated muscle of his arms and chest, perfectly showcased in an olive green button-up shirt. And blimey, that's a good color on him, isn't it? And oh, his curls, Thomas has always been an idiot over men with curls.

"Right, then," he says again, wiping his sweaty palms down his thighs. "I'm Thomas, Dr. Clarkson's graduate assistant. Er. Daisy said you needed a field placement?"

"That's right," the man says. "I'm Edward Courtenay. I've just been readmitted to the program. I completed my foundation year two years ago, before… a personal emergency forced me to quit." The way his hand tightens around the cane as he says this makes Thomas think the personal emergency was related to his vision- likely an accident of some kind, judging by the scarring around his eyes.

If this were a meeting with a client, Thomas might try to get him to elaborate on that, express his feelings and the like, but it's not and he doesn't. Instead, he says, "Courtenay, you say? Let me go dig out your file, alright? Be back in a flash."

He's got to go past Daisy's desk in the tiny department lobby to get to the file room (formerly an alcove and a linen closet, respectively), and he pauses for a whispered conversation with her. "You didn't mention he was blind," he accuses.

"I tried," Daisy whispers back, looking disgruntled. "You said you thought he could manage the walk to your office."

"He can manage," Thomas defends. "And he did. That's not the point."

Daisy's face crumples back into its worried expression from early. "Oh, Thomas," she says. "Dr. Clarkson will let him do field work, right? He can't keep him out because he's blind, can he?"

"He's already been accepted into the program, so Clarkson's got no say." Of course, there's no guaranteeing Clarkson won't try to stick him with a really nasty placement to make him wash out (for the good of the university, he might justify, because there are people more deserving of being accepted into the program than blind toffs), but that's what Thomas is here for- to make sure all the paperwork is drawn up and slipped through processing before Clarkson can stick his nose into it.

"Oh. Alright, then," Daisy says, but then her phone rings and she's got to turn away to greet whoever's on the line (likely someone who wants transferred to a specific professor without knowing that professor's extension, name, or even whether they're really in the Social Work Department at all).

Edward Courtenay's file is easy enough to find, right in the MSW Inactive drawer where it should be. Thomas flips through it as he walks back to the office and sure enough, finds no notes about special accommodations from his foundation year, meaning Edward wasn't blind when he did his last placement. His last placement, which was…

"You interned at Ripon Reform?" he asks sharply as he comes into the office.

Edward starts but recovers quickly and nods. "That's right," he says. "Is that going to be a problem?"

"No," Thomas assures him. "Not a problem, not at all." He doubts very much Ripon keeps its alumni list out in the open where any intern could just come across it, and even if they do, there's surely at least a handful of kids with his name who might've gone to the school over the years- no reason for this handsome bloke to reject him before he's even got his foot in the door romantically. "You don't happen to have an updated field placement application filled out, do you?"

"I do, as a matter of fact," Edward says. He reaches for his bag and rifles through it for a moment before coming up with the form, which has one of those braille type-and-stick labels at the top left corner, near to the staple. He hands it over and Thomas scans it.

Edward lives in Thirsk, Thomas learns, and his emergency contact is his brother Jack. Edward also has transportation (public), speaks German and French, and will not be otherwise employed during the academic year. He would be interested in a mental health, medical, or child welfare/family service placement, preferably located in Ripon. Under the section about special accommodations, Edward has requested his own desk or workspace (so nothing would be moved about in his absence, Thomas supposes), allowances to record meetings with clients, permission to use his own laptop computer for work purposes or to be provided with one made to his specifications (braille keyboard, screen reading software, braille embosser, etc.), a work schedule within the hours of the bus system, and the use of a reader, if necessary (a role filled traditionally by grad students, Thomas knows, and that does give him an idea, doesn't it?).

"Seems in order," he says after he's checked it all over. "I'll still need a copy of your resume as soon as possible so I can make contact with the agencies for you, and you'll need child abuse clearances and your criminal background check, but those don't have to be in until a month before you start the internship. Do you know what type of placement you want? We've got a contract with Family Fostercare, for instance, or maybe… Henshaws."

Edward inhales and then says tightly, "It won't help me to be shunted to the side, you know. I know there's discrimination in social work agencies, but I'm willing to face that. I can work with sighted clients and I'm going to do so."

"That's… not what I meant," Thomas says lamely, flushing and looking down at his hands. "I only- that is, I did my internship at Henshaws this past year, and they've got spots for interns open. And sometimes it helps for- for the clients there to see there's hope for them yet."

"Oh," Edward murmurs, his own lovely cheekbones darkening in a blush. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… imply anything nefarious about your helping me. I really do appreciate it, you know."

"Well, that's alright." Thomas says, managing a grin. "What about, since you've got an interest in family welfare, the battered women's shelter in Ripon? Sybil- the other GA- did her foundation year there, and she said it was a really satisfying placement."

"They don't prefer women social workers there?" Edward asks, and Thomas sighs.

"They do," he admits. "Usually. But…"

"But I'm no threat to them," Edward finishes for him, giving a self-deprecating little laugh. "Of course. Very well, I'll agree. If they'll have me, I'll take the placement."

Thomas swallows. "You've got a sweet voice," he blurts. "Low, comforting. Women like that."

Edward laughs again, and this time Thomas thinks he might hear the threat of tears behind it. This man, he's not really over losing his sight, not yet, and it may be that, despite his words, he's not quite sure he can work with sighted clients. "Do they?" he asks. "I wouldn't know."

"Yes," Thomas tells him firmly. "They do." He knows that from Sybil's commentary, at the very least. "You'll do well there."

"You sound so sure," Edward murmurs.

"I am sure," Thomas says. "This is what I do. This is what I'm good at. If I think you'll do well in a placement, that's what'll happen, I promise."

They're on the brink of having a moment, Thomas is sure. Now would be a good time, he thinks, to ask Edward for a coffee or at least if he's seeing anyone. Now is his chance.

The telephone rings and Thomas starts.

"Excuse me," he says and turns to answer it. "Grantham University Social Work Field Office, this is Thomas speaking."

It turns out to be some twit who never got the PIN to register for her summer classes (very solidly not Thomas's problem), but it takes him a few minutes to talk her around to admitting who her faculty advisor is. They're the only ones who can help with PIN nonsense, but for some reason or another, most students avoid speaking with them at all costs. When he finally gets it out of her (Professor Carson, and no wonder she's scared to talk to him) he transfers her without ceremony and turns back to Edward.

"Sorry," he says, when he sees that Edward is shifting around in his seat impatiently.

"It's no trouble," Edward lies.

"I've actually got all I need for now," Thomas says, somewhat reluctant for the man to leave, but mindful of his discomfort anyway (and that is something new for him, isn't it?) "I'll call the shelter for you and set something up. We've already got a contract with them, so as soon as you send me your resume- fax or email, it doesn't matter- I can forward it to them. Then when they make a decision, I'll ring you and let you know. Alright?"

"Yes, that sounds fine," Edward says. He stands and offers his hand, which Thomas takes, getting to his own feet, as well. "Thank you for all your help."

"My pleasure," Thomas tells him, and that's God's honest truth.

Edward smiles and Thomas smiles back, though Edward can't see him. Neither of them pulls away. They stand there in Thomas's tiny office that used to be a dressing room, smiling at each other like idiots, until something crashes out in the hallway and they're forced to break apart.

"Right," Edward says after clearing his throat. "Well. Thank you again."

Thomas doesn't say anything, just makes a noncommittal noise, trying to work up his courage. Edward steps back and gets a better grip on his cane, then slowly starts to walk out the door. He's in the threshold when Thomas finally manages to say, "Edward!"

The man turns back toward Thomas, cocks his head the better to hear what's being said over the noise in the corridor.

"If you ever do need a reader," Thomas says carefully, "I'm available. Or, or if you just want someone to have coffee with, I know a place."

Edward smiles, mouth closed but eyes crinkling. "Well," he says, "you've got my number."


End file.
